


Some Kind of Religion

by Prosodi



Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: Backstory, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pre-Canon, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:50:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prosodi/pseuds/Prosodi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finas used to be the kind of man who went to confession. In 1920's New Orleans, he's learning a new kind of religion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind of Religion

Finas had once been the kind of man who attended church, the kind of man who occasionally prayed for things when he wasn’t sure where he was going or how to get where he needed to be. He had felt up a young woman in a narrow armchair, the French that she spoke catching in her throat and on his lips, and afterward he had felt guilty enough to sit in confession. When he had been younger, it was the kind of thing he could imagine caring about. That had been a long time ago.

 

The air is acrid with the taste of cigarette smoke and drinking and the lurid heat of sweating bodies and skin and the tang of laughter and music. Beside him, Casimiro breathes in the sweet taste of it - he adjusts the mask on his face and says, “Christ, look at them,“ through the gaps of his fingers. He’s grinning, one eye already sunk closed from some anticipated pleasure. 

Finas leans out over the rail of the café’s balcony to peer down into the lush swarm of Mardi Gras revelers. New Orleans is new for them - easy and rolling like the smooth curve of a neck and shoulder on an average day, but here it is hot and pulsing and needy - the whole god damned city arching to the thrust of jazz band quick time and sweating bayou humidity. 

Finas licks his lips absently and beside him Casimiro leans closer like they’re confidants, leaning in to share some secret but instead Casimiro chuckles low in his throat like a back road snake oil salesman. They are the only things in the city whose skin isn’t flush, breathing a little taut. Finas doesn’t make any noise at all when Casimiro bumps his knuckles vaguely against the side of his jaw and asks, more friendly than maybe it should be: “Are you still hungry?” 

“I could eat.” 

They leave the drinks they ordered on the café table; Finas has no taste for bourbon from the glass anymore. 

The anonymous faces on the street open up for them and they’re like snakes sliding into an unguarded chicken coop. It’s easy and no one really notices and in the surge of people and the laughter and the bright colors, it’s easy to lose Casimiro from sight if not smell. Finas can feel the tug of him at the back of his brain, some predatory instinct of like blood (or lack of). It’s easy for him to keep tabs on it, the narrowing thread that runs between them and weaves along the street. Finas does his best to ignore it, instead lets himself sink into the throb of the celebration. 

Some faceless woman catches him by the neck of his waist coat and she kisses him on the mouth, panting alcohol. Her beaded headdress clicks loudly and he manages to duck away before she can start trading strings of beads or any of that complete idiocy, hell bent on finding Casimiro. Christ, look at them. 

He finds the other vampire in a narrow back ally with his hand down the front of a man’s pants. He’s older, the cheap mask he’s wearing pushed up over the bridge of his nose so that when Casimiro goes to his knees, the stranger can see it from under the bottom of the gold painted muslin cloth. 

Finas lurches and for a few seconds he doesn’t really know what to do. After a beat he retreats lamely to the mouth of the alley and stands like some awkward but attentive guard, except he’s not really watching the street and instead is waiting to catch Casimiro’s eye, which he does as the vampire takes the man’s cock out and scuffs his lips over the underside, not actually using his mouth. Casimiro looks straight at him from behind the mask before he lets his eyes slide half closed and Finas can see the man’s knees shake and can feel the drum of his pulse. Casimiro’s tongue, Finas knows, is a little dry - like a cat’s - but that doesn’t stop the stranger from groaning when he uses it, fingers coiling into the Italian’s (if that counts for anything now) chestnut hair. 

To his credit, Casimiro lets the man finish before he bobs his head up and spits come onto the street. He works his jaw like it aches and Finas takes it to mean something, so he moves from the mouth of the alley and heads toward them. 

“Oh Christ--” says the man and he goes to clutch at his belt, but Casimiro steadies him and growls something against his hip which keeps him still until Finas reaches him. Casimiro is looking up at him from the corner of his eye, just barely visible in the shadow of the mask. Finas sways forward and for a second his fingers hesitate. 

He smashes the man’s throat with his palm at the same time Casimiro bites into the meaty flesh of the man’s thigh, tearing into the skin as he bleeds and bleeds. Finas opens up his neck once the man stops fighting with his hands and lapses into a slow scrape of fingertips on the wall behind him. It tastes sweet: liquor and smoke the tang of adrenaline from sex and shock. Casimiro groans against the skin. 

When they’re finished, they leave the body. Finas wipes his mouth and licks it off the back of his hand, but Casimiro doesn’t bother. 

“You look like an insane person.” 

“Well, you know.” There is blood smeared across the half of his face not concealed by a ridiculous beaded and feathered mask, streaked down the line of his neck and rubbed into the collar of his shirt and tie. It’s a long stripe of gore and Finas is still craving something he doesn’t really know the name of. 

Casimiro takes all the beads from off the body. “I wouldn’t mind an early night,” he says. “I’d bet we can see the fireworks better from the window of the apartment anyway.” 

 

The room is small and musty. Finas opens the window above the bed to let the air in; the smell and the noise comes with it, and he’s only partially disgusted but it’s enough that he lays down instead of leaning out the window. He takes off the mask and toes off his shoes. Casimiro does neither, though he does lay partially down on his side with an elbow hooked on the window sill so he can look out. No fireworks yet. 

Finas shifts and the mattress squeaks faintly and he shouldn’t be irritated by it, but he is. He’s sharply aware of the fact that he should be satisfied - he can still taste the blood at the back of his mouth, but instead of enjoying it, he works his tongue over the iron taste until it isn’t there anymore. Purges himself. 

There is a crackle. A bang. “Oh, there,” says Casimiro. “That wasn’t very exciting.” 

“Wait for it,” Finas growls. “I’m sure there’s more on the way.” 

Casimiro turns to look at him, face unreadable under the mask. “Well, someone’s not enjoying carnival season like they should. What do you need, peacock? Here, I’ll make you some delicious sweet cookies so you can get fat and enjoy it like you should.” He pats Finas on the stomach and that’s the most aggravating -- Finas slaps his hand away and frowns. 

“It’s cruel - pushing them around like that.” 

Somehow, and Finas doesn’t really want to think about how, Casimiro doesn’t need any elaboration. He knows already and just shrugs it off. He flicks his wrist and hums something low and dismissing, shifting his attention back to the open window. “Don’t be an idiot. It’s the spirit of the holiday - fattening up on sin so you can get through the hell on Earth that is Lent. He knew what he was getting into.” Casimiro pauses, then amends. “Well, I mean. Mostly.” 

And Finas can’t see much of his face, but he can see the way that he smiles slowly until it covers his whole face. When he laughs, it startles him by how loud it is - a sharp bark. It disintegrates quickly, but leaves Finas a little on edge. He can feel the muscle in his jaw twitching. 

“Next time, don’t just stand there,” Casimiro says after a while and Finas, if he breathed, probably would have choked a little on that although he isn’t really sure why. 

He’s spent god knows how long with Casimiro - has stopped counting. The apartment only has one bed and they both know it, but for some reason sharing in Casimiro’s spoils isn’t really -- the blood is fine, everything else seems like a fence to be climbed instead of just a line to be crossed. 

When he doesn’t answer, Casimiro looks at him. His eyes are dark, the moonlight glinting in his right eye. After a few seconds, his hand snakes down to catch Finas’ waistcoat at the same point where earlier the woman grabbed at him in the street. It’s significantly less desperate. “Lent is for people with sin,” is what Casimiro says. 

“Do you know much about that?” He looks at him, and Finas knows that he’s perfectly aware of how he’s parted his lips a little and tipped his face. 

Once, when he was very young, Finas was scared that he might be going to Hell. It was good motivation to shy away from lines of all sorts. Here though, in the early 20th century with the humidity oozing in heavy through the window and Casimiro’s fingers pressed against his collarbone (no warmth in the touch, but he doesn’t really notice) and blood still all over his face, Hell is significantly less of a threat. 

“No, not really,” and Casimiro kisses him. The angle is slightly awkward until Finas tips his head to meet him, prompts Casimiro to groan into his mouth like a slut as Finas licks the blood off the front of his teeth. 

Casimiro is undoing all the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt with one hand, gets halfway done and then just scuffs his fingers down to the front of Finas’ slacks. He squeezes and grins against his mouth, feathers from that god damn mask tickling at Finas’ forehead. “I didn’t really think you did,” and opens his pants, reaches down into them to stroke Finas’ dick. 

It takes him a few seconds to orient himself, for Finas to filter out the prickle of sensation from Casimiro’s fingers long enough to turn his head away slightly to wear the mask isn’t threatening to poke out an eye, so he can bring a hand up and clumsily push at Casimiro’s shoulder. “Wait. Wait, just -- easy. Fuck, get off me for a second.” 

He sways up sharply but doesn’t remove his hands from Finas’ pants. Goddamned typical. He waits, expectant, and Finas imagines his eyebrows are raised. “Really?” 

Finas is undoing the rest of his shirt buttons, trying to ignore the palm on his cock and only managing to be partially successful. He knows he’s getting hard from the subtle press of Casimiro’s fingers and he wishes he wouldn’t do that when he’s trying to be-- Finas shakes his vest and shirt off and lets himself settle into the mattress, Casimiro’s hand loyally in place over his crotch. 

“Well?” A verbal foot tap of impatience. 

“Well,” Finas bites back. “Just don’t use your mouth. I’ve seen where it’s been.” It’s biting and he knows it, but Casimiro just laughs again and finally takes his hand out of his slacks long enough to shuck his clothes. He leaves the mask on though, the Mardi Gras beads glinting against his dark skin in the moonlight from the window. When he’s naked, all long limbs and sharp hip bones, he clambers over top of Finas and settles briefly. 

He doesn’t agree so much as he just kisses Finas on the neck, the smell of the blood on him like a pinch. It isn’t until Casimiro rocks himself down against the front of his slacks that Finas catches him by the hips and makes a low appreciative noise. He can feel the grin against the side of his neck before Casimiro nips, sucks hard at the sting. Keeps up that slow, pleasant roll of his hips like he wants to fuck himself on Finas. Which is good - goddamn inspired, and makes him hard and twitching in his pants, but there’s something about the way Finas can feel his stomach drop when Casimiro shifts to start taking off the last layers between them, that makes him squirm a little against the slide of his trousers from his hips. 

“Jesus Christ, what now?” Casimiro shoves the mask up off his face and on to the top of his head, mouth sloping sharply into a frown. He glares at Finas, tugs at his pants impatiently and it’s the first time Finas has seen his face in hours. It makes his cock throb. 

He swallows hard, scuffs his knuckles down Casimiro’s naked chest, lower to his abdomen and then catches his erection, squeezes. “You should fuck me,” he grates out, throat raw and the angle of Casimiro’s shoulders drop like he’s startled and there’s the ghost of that scowl on his face that quickly slides from the corner of his mouth. After a few seconds of arrested motion, Casimiro tears his pants off and grins as he tangles their legs up with the very specific kind of excitement Finas has learned to attribute it to Casimiro and fucking, one way or the other. 

It isn’t impatient and it isn’t sudden - Casimiro gets his legs up near his waist and then leans forward, humming into Finas’ throat like a substitute for trading breath they don’t actually need or have anymore. He puts his fingers in Finas’ mouth, thrusts them lazily between his lips until he’s satisfied, until Finas can feel his skin prickle. Likes the skate of those wet fingers down his side and between then, the low brush and the tension and Casimiro presses two in. It’s dry and stings. Some part of him likes the ache of Casimiro’s fingers lurching inside him. Finas clutches at his shoulder and makes a pitched noise in the darkness. 

Fingers are enough of a sting though, and Casimiro digs up the oil, makes a stupid crack, “Better than cookies,” as he slathers his dick with it. 

“I’m going to punch you.” Finas means to growl it, but mostly it’s flat and the way he can feel himself go all sharp angled when Casimiro presses the head of his cock against him makes it the least hollow threat in the entire city, possibly the continent. Casimiro latches his arms under his, fingers lacing behind Finas’ neck. He grins at him, the edge of the mask trending toward his eyebrows. 

“I doubt it,” and then pushes into him slowly and Finas can feel himself falling slowly apart until there’s nothing left but the press of Casimiro in him and the man’s fingers curled against his neck and the slow arching grin. 

“F-fuck,” he stammers, clutches at Casimiro’s bicep as they settle together. There are beads on Casimiro’s neck and thy dangle low, cold on Finas’ bare chest as the vampire hums some kind of affirmation before straightening out just slightly. 

It’s just enough to catch Finas’ eye and look at him as he pulls back, nearly out. Snaps his hips and thrusts down into him with enough force to make Finas’ back arch, fingers scrabble on skin, but not enough to break eye contact and Finas stares back at him at Casimiro establishes some kind of rhythm that makes every inch of him crackle and burn. He grunts and Casimiro bows over him and growls, “Shit, you’re so fucking tight,” while looking at him with hungry eyes. 

And Finas clutches at him, would be panting in some other lifetime, and says “Cas, Casimiro” like this is some kind of religion.


End file.
